Four Whiskies
by meniscus
Summary: The morning after Snape pulls his infamous betrayal of Dumbledore, we find him on the couch, in a rather reflective mood. It's a quirky little sketch of Snape with a dash of angst. Please R&R.


Disclaimer: characters and setting belong to J.K. Rowling.

Author's note: It's been a long time since I wrote any fanfiction of any kind. I've been out of the 'game' for a while, so you'll have to pardon me if I don't really seem aware of many recently devised standards for fan-cannon. Thanks for reading, please review :0)

Severus Snape sat on a torn couch nursing a glass of whiskey with ice. He watched the room around him with its dusty, yellowing curtains and spotted, peeling wallpaper, and felt that something was amiss. The way that the morning's rosy light filled the room and set off its colours in the usual manner bothered him; the mundane solidness -- it was wrong, there had to be some break of natural etiquette somewhere in its stubborn sameness. He caught himself in the midst of a loud, unconscious sigh.

There had been no sleep that night, though he had had the time. He never bothered trying, aware that any attempt would be pointless. He could have taken a potion, but he wanted to punish himself. A peaceful sleep, a dreamless, dark sleep after the evening's events was simply not a luxury he could allow himself in good conscience at this time. After killing Dumbledore he had reported back to Lord Voldemort with Draco Malfoy. Their conversation was a blur in his mind for the most part. Any recollection of voices he could conjure was fuzzy, surreal in the manner it retained meaning texture yet lacked specifics.

He had been offered a most secure and comfortable place to spend the night, but politely declined it, truthfully on the grounds of wanting to be alone. Lord Voldemort had been pleased enough with him to suffer the request. So Severus was back at his house, guarded and indiscreetly spied upon, but, nevertheless left to collect himself. He drained the remainder of the whiskey and slid off the couch onto pitted floorboards. He wasn't drunk, but he wished he was; there would be no redemption for him if he slipped up now because he'd drunk a little too much. He had to be wound tight. He was a coiled spring, coiled tighter and tighter 'till the right time.

Severus suppressed a yawn and pulled himself back onto the couch. He dragged a tasseled cushion over his eyes and imagined himself to be afflicted with a Hollywood hangover. The ridiculously over-acted sort, where the individual in question writhes about helplessly in their sodden sheets at the slightest touch of noise and light . He rolled onto his side and put the pillow under his head. With gentle movements his hand lightly traced along the rust coloured Baroque patterns of the stained couch. A dialogue began in his head:

Begin with saying something good: _Dumbledore is dead, my Lord. Some of the enemy has been wounded_. Then move onto an irrelevant fault: _My cover is blown, Lord, they now know all my loyalty lies with you_. End with another good point, to minimize the negative and maximize the positive: _ Without Dumbledore the enemy is stricken and confused, the normal order of operations has been disrupted_. Yes, thought Severus, and yet the scratches on my silly floor are the same. The silly sun rose indifferently. I took his life and nobody struck me down for it.

He poured himself another glass of whiskey; the cool drink provided a refreshing contrast against the increasingly stuffy air of the room. Begin with saying something good: _I did what Dumbledore wanted. I deceived everyone including the Dark Lord and as a result my cover is more secure than it has ever been_. Now move onto an irrelevant fault: _I am alone. I am more alone than I have ever been before. I will betray the people who respect me and am loathed utterly by those who I am trying to save_. Lastly, say another good thing, to minimize the negative and maximize the positive: _ There are worse things than death. I've had sex more recently than Voldemort. Or Dumbledore -- As far as I know_. Severus smirked a slight, sleepily wry smirk to himself. Not that either great wizard posed particularly stiff competition to anyone in that department. He closed his eyes.

A tantalizing image of Narcissa floated into his mind: her silken hair, inviting bosom, and elegant neck trembled in time to passionate breathing. The image began to acquire a little bit of a soundtrack -- gasps and throaty moans. Severus saw white roses blooming. The sounds changed and Narcissa floated away, to be replaced by an attractive Slytherin fourth year. She had been caught in a bathroom outside the dorm with a younger friend after hours one night; Filch had turned them over to him. The fourth year started explaining the situation, and in his mind's eye, Severus watched as her skirt magically became shorter and shorter, revealing more and more shapely leg with each passing moment. She kept making futile pulls to tug it down. Red roses were blooming, falling. Down. Down. Down. Somebody else spoke his name, quite softly. "Severus ... Severus ... please..."

He sat bolt upright, jarred from his semi-conscious wandering by revulsion, wringing his pillow with furious white-knuckled fingers, he felt his face flush hotly with guilt. If his memory served him correctly, the girls had been sneaking around because the non-talking one had just gotten her period and was too shy to use the dorm facilities. Or something. Bloody school girls. Severus cringed and hid his face in the pillow as thick, warm thoughts about death, and blood, and excrement swam through his mind. Then he removed the pillow, downed his whiskey in one go, and proceeded to feel sick to his stomach. He poured himself a third glass and put that immediately to his lips, ignoring the sensible voice in his head that pointed out how three generous whiskies probably weren't good for a cheap drunk who had not eaten in well over twelve hours. _Four glasses is not better_, said the sensible voice as Severus started on another.

"Pfft," he said out loud to the sensible voice. Then, silently: Four is a nice round number, a sexy little number; it's the number of death and adds up to a drink for me, a drink for you, my sensible voice, a drink for Lord Voldemort, and a drink for the boy who lived, who wants me dead. _Drink if you must_, replied the sensible voice, and Severus was stung by how its tone suddenly reminded him of Dumbledore. He covered his face with the pillow for a third time and remained that way for a while. Then he wobbled over the kitchen and made himself toast and tea.


End file.
